The Detroit spring is a cruel tease. The calendar says April, and the sun occasionally peeks through the clouds with a golden promise, but the wind still bites with a winter's tooth. It’s that lingering chill that makes the bones ache and the heart wander back to the perpetual warmth of Penang.
As I watch the stubborn frost cling to the edges of the sidewalk here, I find myself retreating into the attic of my mind, dusting off memories of a boy I barely recognize anymore.
He was the "role model" with the pristine uniform and the innocent smile, who was, in reality, a master of shadows. I wasn’t the "naughty boy" who got caught; I was the one who looked like he could do no wrong while harboring a heart full of calculated mistakes.
The Bitter Truth vs. The Sugar-Coated Lie
As the years have added silver to my hair and wisdom to my heart, I’ve realized that the Malay proverb menanam tebu di tepi bibir—planting sugarcane on the lips—is a dangerous way to live. Being sweet in words while the reality is rot only hurts everyone involved.
Now, I choose the truth. Even when it stings. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Because a wound cleaned with alcohol heals better than one covered in silk.
The Architects of My Soul
Living so far from home has made me realize that I am a mosaic of the people who refused to give up on me. My teachers weren't just educators; they were my second parents, the ones who saw the "dumb" kid and decided he was worth the effort. They taught me about adulthood before I even knew what a bill was.
I think about them often now:
The Clarity of Vision: I remember my Standard Three teacher. During report card day, she didn't sugarcoat my performance. She told my mother the blunt truth: I couldn't see the board. That honesty led to my first pair of glasses. It wasn't just my sight that improved that day; it was the moment I realized that someone was actually watching over me.
The Beauty of the Mother Tongue: I remember the teacher who was a stickler for grammar. "It is dalam kalangan, not di kalangan," she would insist. At the time, it felt like a chore. Today, as an expat, that correction is my anchor. It made me appreciate the nuances of my mother tongue, keeping my heritage alive even in the heart of Michigan.
The Gift of Courage: Then there was the teacher who "forced" me—though now I see it as the ultimate encouragement—to stand on the stage every Monday morning. Reciting prayers in front of the whole school, my knees shaking, my voice trembling. That stage was where my confidence was born. Every time I speak up in a boardroom today, I am standing on that school assembly stage.
Terhutang Budi: A Debt of the Heart
In our culture, we speak of terhutang budi—a debt of kindness that can never truly be repaid.
I feel the weight of it now. I have this burning need to find them, from my primary school days to my university years. I want to sit across from them, perhaps at a quiet stall back home, and belanja them a meal. I want to treat them with the same reverence I give my parents.
To my teachers: You were the compass when I was lost in my own lies. You were the truth when I was afraid. I miss you, I respect you, and I am coming home to find you. Because like parents, you didn't just teach me how to read; you taught me how to see.
Sent with love from the Motor City to the Pearl of the Orient.
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